What new is now

Today. In proper.
In a formal way,
G’day a wave. to him and her.
and left behind and smile and reconcile.

And write. and throb and laugh and joke and be silly and drink this and that tea. tea. tea. The things that matter such as family.
The sucking of a poison. The propping up. The comfort and caring.
The disjoint of want and need and priorities.
What I can do, what I want to feel.
Want to do.
Hope and happiness.
Regret. stuckness. signs.

I’m but a chick. A babe.
a young thing.
Silence with pa.
He knows I need to be able to hold a barrel.
Silent anger.
It must be tiredness.
Hunger.
Peace.
Fill the void, the pit, the pain.
Fill it with feelings, with wants.
With fucked up needs.
And even these you don’t.
Just give up your life.
Effect nothing.
Just brains in things you barely understand,
lets understand like me.
Oh you don’t?

No fun. Too deep.
No hatred, or prejudice;
-well thats nice.
kind of.
That’s kind.
of a sort above the sad, the shameful.
Dishonest, as I am with myself.
And the wish, the hope that i’d be helping someone out.
And in my spare time,
Not getting cooked-
Not forgetting.
I was in a mood, careful, scared. Underfed and angry.

Carrots man. Carrots.
Beer, frustration.
Chill, cans, can-can.
Dance and hang and shower and shave and wash and cut me.
Cut my hair.
my wrists, my clothes.
My guts.
Gust from their open wound.
And to my surprise, though I spill out of myself.
My mind worrying.
Trying to keep it all in, trying to stay clean.
Hygiene.
My guts fall on the floor, to the dirt.
I get a pine needle and some tiny rocks.
I lean over, feeling dizzy and faint.
Like I could vomit from the sack that hangs out and is squeezed by gravity.
My throat swallows, like a pipe, all shook up in a thunderstorm.
I taste blood, and water seems to come out my nose.

I blow the dirt from my innards.
“My gizzards are a colour i’ve never seen”- purple – I think.
Pulsingly.
I blow a rasping and spittle filled breath.
My throat is dry, like the roadsides of Australian dessert.
Clay and roadkill fill my nose.

I am a god of dray.
Dry bones can be seen. The elements have changed on this world.
I am sunken.
I am blackened.
My eyeballs are pitch and glinting and starved.
My nose is small and shrivveled back, back.
I have nothing to lick with, and my skin is scrunched up paper.

My arms (and this is truly) truly hurt.
Left, all day. Pulse, pulse.
Like i’m pulling hairs down my forearm, only not.
Not at all, not quite even.
The vein is raised.
I might be dying.
I am dying.

Delete my me.
get rid of me, of it all,
technology first.
social suicide.
killer, bland, people.
all different, I share among them the fear of other.
I will be rational only for a minute more.
and my arms!

I must have slept.
And walked.
“sleep-walked”.
I remember waking up in a field,
it was dewwey, I was tired and freezing cold were my feet.
But everyting else was ok.

My right arm hurts. But closer to the elbow.
My left shin.
My breath is ok.
Appetite is fine I suppose.
Phone buzz, phone buzz.
Fuck off.
I’m dying can’t you see? This is IT.
I ate all the chicken.
With garlic.
and the curry was poor.
I tried, try to do it all for everyone.
But I try too much, too hard.
give and give and give.
well fuck all of you.
There is no rush, no race.
Timing and all that.
I will revolt you.

There is options, I sweat.
shins and forearms sore.
And I swear, as my insides tear, and
my ears and eyes tear up at the senses.
The numbness and bone deep tiredness.

I take one thing away.

I blow upon my intestines,
to clean.
But to my surprise,
unrecognised by you in my eyes-
as a surprise.
But my guts dry.
I mean shrivvel.
Like cat-gut.
Like old ferns with ropes tied around and around.
Bulbs and knots and dry.
So dry.
My breath is so dry I could exhale forever. My lungs with punctures.
Ears dripping, punctures.
Nose dripping, wheezing.
Eyebrows twitching over pits.
The nose, pointed, sharp to cut apples.

And I fashion a noose.
Two rings, I saw on youtube.
Joined at the middle and round and round and round.
Wrapped up.
Arms burning now.
Legs heavy.
Tired from the dripping.
The loss, the moss under my feet.
Overmy- head.
and always thinking.
the loss, the pain of loss.
The pain and the pleasure of pain.
and one and the other.
And my needless god-damn-wants.
I want it all to end.
I want comfort.
I want what I want,
I want time.
I need to think, and be loved.
I need time, and context
conversationg accost me.
I stole your compliments,
I stood on my head.
I fed myself well.
I held it together,
in my right arm a noose,
held loosely-
The cachophony of my mind.
The phoney feelings.
The reeling of cat-gut.
The smut and smell.
My sharp nose.
My beady eyes.
Singlemindedness.
No more distraction.
I strangle myself that night, and all the next day with my own intestines.
Dried out by my own meaningless breath.

Cut him down.
Throw him among the pillows.
Roi- ROI- ROI.

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